


How I Met

by thebluefrenchhorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Hurt Damon Salvatore, Master of Death Harry Potter, Single Parent Harry Potter, Teddy Lupin Deserves the World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluefrenchhorn/pseuds/thebluefrenchhorn
Summary: The problem began far before Elena Gilbert entered the picture. No, for Damon, the problem began the moment he fell in love with his best friend, Hariel Potter, Death, destroyer of worlds. / a drabble series based off the prompt "how I met..."
Relationships: Harry Potter/Damon Salvatore, Teddy Lupin & Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 200





	1. your mother, death, destroyer of worlds

"Scotch? You're not honestly choosing that, are you?" An accented voice— _American_ , Hariel noted, _of course the pub asshole is an American—_ spoke, prematurely interrupting her order. She swung her head to the right, elbows digging into the alcohol-stained counter for balance as her hair whipped to the side in a flurry of curls. Demurely, she gazed up beneath her messy fringe, her lips curling into a small pout just as Lavender had taught her.

"I'm sorry did you say something?" she asked politely. While she wasn't nearly as talented as her blonde friend when it came to playing this card, her voice was soft and tinged with just the right amount of confusion to be believable. Of course, the haughty expression decorating the stranger's face was also a boon. The pompous assholes were always the most fun to let down.

Sure, he was certainly pretty enough to back up such arrogance, pale eyes set against dark waves and fair skin in an undeniably attractive manner. But, Hariel knew how to handle pretty; could manage it with the deft hand of a professional bullshitter. Not that this was very surprising. Having had to interact with Draco Malfoy for nearly a decade, she had compiled a virtually perfect cheat sheet for dealing with entitled assholes and while, _yes_ , those were years of her life she was never getting back, they undoubtedly payed off in situations like this.

"Are you alright, sir?" she pressed, taking in his bewildered expression. His surprise wasn't obvious per se, but if there was one thing that boarding school had taught her (and that's exactly what Hogwarts truly was: a glorified boarding school turned warzone), it was how to read the many faces of drama. A slightly quirked eyebrow here, a thinning of the lips there? It was painfully obvious that her pretty stranger had little experience with kindness, even if it was of the fake variety. _It's hard to come up with witty quips, isn't it?_ she mused, muffling her snicker with the sleeve of her sweater. _Especially, when you're stuck arguing with yourself._

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," the American began confidently and wasn't that cute? He was trying to _center_ himself. "Just a little surprised. I assumed you were going to stay a bit closer to home, flip through the latest fruity concoctions until you inevitably settle upon the Cosmopolitan we all knew you were going to choose."

"You know, misogyny is a lovely color on you." Hariel's smile was all teeth, her thin frame teetering precariously upon the rickety barstool as she kicked her legs forward absentmindedly. "Really compliments your charming disposition."

She picked up her drink, a half-filled glass of scotch recently deposited before her by the bartender, swirling the golden liquid with a lazy flick of her wrist. _Oh, he looks like he swallowed a lemon. How wonderful._

While it was true that nothing was quite as satisfying as a good ol' Bat-Bogey Hex, this was certainly a close second.

* * *

Damon knew he was an asshole. He relished in it, embracing his characterization with a flourish that so few individuals in the supernatural community truly appreciated. Stefan hadn't. Of course, Stefan didn't appreciate most things, instead preferring to live in the unending torture that was his existence. Honestly, that boy was strange even by _vampire standards_. The last time Damon had checked up on him (January 1979, a wonderful month spent painting Saint Stefan's life into a living hellscape), he had been relying on a middle aged pen pal to guide him to the holy truth of veganism or whatever the vampire equivalent was. Damon didn't quite care to analyze the technicalities of the whole thing.

And, if he was being honest with himself, Damon had gone into the pub looking for a fight, his patience fraying from his thwarted abduction attempt of some ditzy brunette and her friend. Apparently, the police in England were actually competent, a holistically new experience that he did not recommend for any of his American drinking buddies. European vampires sure had it rough.

Case in point: he was _hungry_ , he was _pissed_ , and if making some underage British twit cry would make him feel better, he was going to do his damn best to make sure she was filling buckets with her tears. But, no, instead of being cowed by the intimidating figure he cut, little miss redhead decided to flirt. Apparently, teenage Brits were into some Lolita shit.

Damon could work with that. Especially, if it meant getting a replacement meal for the two he lost earlier. Of course, things didn't end up going that way. Unfortunately, the redhead was _defective_ , thoroughly convinced of his charms up until the moment that she spontaneously decided she wasn't.

This wasn't how the game worked. _He_ was the asshole and the _other person_ was the one who had to deal with it.

"Honestly, for someone who appears to make a habit of insulting women, you're rather awful at it." she continued and, Jesus, had homicide never appeared more glorious.

"Yes, yes, wonderful comeback. Many applause," Damon responded sardonically. "Doesn't change the fact that you're a bit young to be drinking, aren't you? Now, I'm not quite sure how you convinced buster here to serve you," he jabbed his thumb in the direction of their world weary bartender. The poor excuse of a human bloodbag looked like he was only a few derogatory comments away from ending it all. "But, I'm not buying it."

"What did you do?" he pressed, leaning in with a sly smile. "A conveniently placed nip slip?"

Almost instantly, the girl scooted backwards, her features morphing to accommodate her freshly arrived upon disgust. "No, although I could say the same about you." she bit out.

Damon smirked. _I've been doing this for over two centuries, sweetheart. You shouldn't have even tried._ "Now, I don't believe that's true," he said, waving his finger pointedly, glass of scotch swirling around in his other hand like a maelstrom of gold. "Because I'm twenty-four and you don't look a day over seventeen. I don't need to stoop to seducing my server to receive an alcholic beverage."

"That's not what I did."

"It's alright. A girl's got to eat, doesn't she?" Damon continued, reveling in the angry breaths his companion began to release.

"You know what? I am done with your bullshit." her eyes were hard now, peering into his own like angry little specks.

"And what exactly are you going to do about it, darling. Call me a sexist pig for the second time?" Damon put his hand over his heart dramatically. "I'm hurt."

It was in that moment, that a switch seemed to be flipped, the atmosphere between the two of them changing almost instantaneously as a deveatating smirk slid across the redhead's face. She clucked her tongue, almost mockingly and though she wore a ridiculously oversized sweater, one that practically consumed her small form, her presence seemed to almost dwarf his for that brief second.

"Ah, but looks can be deceiving," she murmured, voice a soft whisper. "You'd know a lot about that wouldn't you, Mr. Vampire?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: God bless Tsume_Yuki for adding 'Hariel' to list of potential fem!Harry names. She has singlehandedly saved the fandom.
> 
> Disclaimer: Format loosely based off of the one used in That One Night.


	2. luna lovegood, prophet of christ

Damon was not a stalker.

No matter what she said.

Damon was not, nor would he ever be, a stalker.

The Katherine situation didn't count.

* * *

The blonde twerp wouldn't have been his first pick. In fact, she wouldn't have been his second or third or even fourth pick. But, by the time he found her, Damon wasn't just running out of options—he had none.

He had been searching for the pesky redhead for three weeks now, combing through every London establishment that screamed 'teenage white hipster.' It was undeniably frustrating to be outsmarted by a mortal, particularly one that had divulged his secret so effortlessly before disappearing into the night with every occupant in the pub, Damon included, being none the wiser. Since then, he had spent the majority of his time being acosted by underage women and the occasional teenage boy as he scouted every young adult hotspot. Not that it had done him much good.

By now, it had been over two weeks since the trail he had been following had grown cold—more than cold, freezing in fact—and with that small slip of a girl nowhere in sight, things were drawing to disastrous close that alluded to the onslaught of a mental breakdown within the near future.

All of that considered, Damon felt like he could justify why, when the twiggy blonde with her wide silver eyes and ephermal voice whispered that she could help him find what he was looking for, he jumped upon her with the glee of a starved man.

 _Metaphorical_ glee.

He did not eat her.

But, in hindsight, he really wished he had.

* * *

"I don't understand why we have to discuss this over tea." Damon said, exchanging a dubious glance with the steaming cup held within his grasp, the emblem of some outdated British band merrily smiling back at him.

"And I don't understand why you don't understand why we need to be discussing these matters over tea," the blonde, Luna Lovegood as she had introduced herself earlier, responded with the same sort of circular logic that had plagued their conversations up until that point. "All the best conversations are held over tea."

She paused, toying with the radish that brazanely dangled from her ear, before turning her wide, evanescent gaze upon him. "I think it has something to do with the warmth," she mused, "it must be, for I can attest that I've always thought better on a warm stomach than a cold one. Then again, it could be what I'm drinking and not the actual temperature of it. Details, details, details, so tricky, aren't they? There was that particular lemongrass blend during fifth year that helped me get through my NEWTS. I can't disregard that..."

She trailed off, tugging on one of her loose waves absentmindedly, a dreamy expression overtaking her features. Her phrasing was odd and winding, rising and falling with no real discretion for rhythm, yet spoken with such conviction that Damon wanted to believe her for a moment.

Not that he did, of course.

Because he wasn't _fucking insane_.

Which, apparently, was the crux of the problem.

Or, at least, in the blonde's eyes as she regarded him with disappointment.

"You don't believe me, do you?" she murmured, voice full of solemn pity as if he was the one who needed saving in this scenario. Clearly, it was her, but that went unsaid. "It's the nargles, it must be."

A strained smile slid upon Damon's face and he could feel the mug cracking beneath his vampiric strength. "No, I don't believe it's the nargles."

"It must be them then," the girl shook her head despondently, "not believing they are the cause increases the likelihood of them being the culprit by tenfold. Nargles are strange like that."

She leaned back as if she was exceedingly proud to have educated him about such a fact. She probably was, all self-righteous and undoubtably patting herself on the back for successfully introducing him to her cult mentality. _I could strangle her, walk her out of here, disappear back to my hotel and no one would know_ , he reasoned, _I could strangle her there, have a nice meal and drop the body in some random dumpster. She's probably doped up on heroin or something. The police would write it off as a trip gone wrong._

But, if Damon did that, it would place him once again into the lovely spot of having zero leads and no concrete direction to move towards. More than that, it would undermine his pacient efforts of prying information out of the air headed blonde before him.

"You can still help me, right?" he urged in an almost desperate manner, searching in vain for some fleeting reason to validate the strange occurance of a lunch he had just put himself through.

"I'm not sure. You need a lot of help." _Bitch._

Damon chose to ignore her comment, lest he make good on his precious ponderings. "But can you help me with my search?" he pressed.

"Stop searching?" Luna offered, voice uncertain yet unwavering. "Stalking isn't exactly a healthy habit."

"For the last time, I am not stalking her," Damon stressed, "I don't even know her name. All that I know is that she apparently knows a lot about me which suggests she's the stalker in this case."

Luna shrugged, radiating a disregard that suggested she was above things as petty as his qualms. It only reinforced his urge to wrap his hands around her pretty, little neck. "Her name is Hariel," she said, throwing the name around like it was free candy "and she will find you long before you even get as much of an inkling of where she might be."

Damon frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"Because she's God," Luna answered with the sincerity of a priestess and the disposition of a cult-fanatic that all but screamed at Damon to leave the premises as soon as possible.

He did just that too, standing up dismissively and striding away from the mad girl and her mad ramblings towards the sanity of the outside world. For what a wretched place the universe had shown itself to be, it had nothing upon the cold and unwavering eyes held within that bizarre prophet of a girl.

No lead was better than that freakshow.

"You can't hide from God," the blonde called at his retreating figure.

Her eyes were heavy as they lingered upon him, carrying a weight that no human deserved to possess and, _fuck_ , between her and the redhead he was trying to find, what was England feeding it's young adults? Shrooms? Not that it honestly mattered. Damon wasn't a human. He was a vampire, and for all that Luna Lovegood's eyes were incredibly unsettling, he batted them away from the forefront of his mind with surprising ease.

"God's got nothing on me, baby," he murmured, "I'm motherfucking immortal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I honestly didn't intend to swear so much in this fic, but Damon gets what Damon wants.


	3. mundungus fletcher, failed mugger

"Please don't eat me!"

Damon wanted to laugh. There, trembling before him, pudgy face turning as red as the ginger locks adorning his head, was the hobbit on crack.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you," his lips curled into a grin, elongated canines peaking out ever so slightly in anticipation. "I'm just going to rough you up a bit. Take a couple bites. Gnaw off a limb if I'm feeling extra _adventurous,"_ his eyes flashed red for the briefest of seconds, "we're going to have lots of fun together, Mr. Fletcher. I can promise you that."

* * *

Mundungus Fletcher had been an unfortunate side effect of hunting down Hariel Potter.

Not that Fletcher had even a semblance of understanding about who Damon was searching for or the fact that he was largely unaware of the wizarding world to begin with. Instead, he had just seen Damon, zeroed in on his ridiculously gaudy daylight ring, and attempted to mug him with all of the dignity of drunkard.

Damon was not amused.

In the slightest.

Which was how he found himself, brooding down upon the portly man with enough displeasure that Stefan would be jealous (of course, it went without saying that Stefan should be jealous of all things Damon excelled in and, those he interacted with, as unfortunate as they may be, to a further extent) in the back alley of some abandoned Scottish street. Apparently his hunt for that frustrating redhead—Hariel, according to his clinically insane lunch mate from last week—had devolved into a trip around the British Isles.

"I'm very sorry, I must have mistaken you for someone else," Damon's rather unfortunate victim stuttered out, desperately attempting to alleviate the other man's anger. He was failing miserably. It was to be expected. He was clearly an addict of some sort. A kleptomaniac at best. "I'm Mundugus Fletcher, sir. A connoisseur of rare artifacts."

The vampire just rolled his eyes in response, not bothering to hide is snort at the smaller man's ridiculous attempts at placating him. His unfortunate stutter ruined any chance of what he said to come across as genuine. It was entertaining, though. Damon would give him that. "Now, why would I believe you?" he drawled. "Especially after you tried to rip this off of me?"

Damon wiggled his fingers, the lapis lazuli of his daylight ring glimmering a dazzling shade of blue in the midmorning sun. He grinned sardonically, not the least bit unaware of what exactly would have happened to him if Fletcher had actually been successful on nabbing his family heirloom.

Of course, he never had a chance of getting it to begin with, but that didn't make Damon any less angry.

"No," Damon continued, pale eyed darkening as thick veins crept up his face like tendrils of ivy, "I think what I'm about to do is perfectly reasonable. It's a transaction more than anything else. Your suffering as payment for assaulting me. You're a business man, after all. I'm sure you understand."

Fletcher began shaking more at that, desperation taking over. By this point, his face had grown to reflect the appearance of an overripe tomato and, if Damon was being generous, he might cede that the shorter man was doing a wonderful rendition of a drug-addled child actor.

"Please, don't," he hurried out, "I can give you anything you want. Riches, artifacts, secrets, or celebrities. You want to see the family grimoire of the Burke family? Copper shards from the lost city of Atlantis? An autograph from Hariel Potter?"

Damon froze at that.

"What, did you say?"

Fletcher latched onto the statement like it was his lifeline. Honestly, it probably was. Damon hadn't killed someone in weeks and his self-restraint was fraying at an exponential rate. "Copper shards from the lost city of Atlantis?"

"No, no, after that," Damon pressed.

"An autograph from Hariel Potter?" He hedged, noting Damon's interest and confidence overtaking his features as a result. "I know her personally. Fought with her in the War. You know? You didn't strike me as the wizard type earlier, a bit muggle looking, mate, but I see it now. She's a mighty fine gal. I'm sure I can hook you up with a deal."

Damon had no idea what Mundungus Fletcher was going on about nor did he particularly care all that much. It was something he could look into at another time. This, those words right there, were far more important. Fletcher had said that he knew Hariel. Not that he solely knew of her, but that he genuinely knew her on a personal level; that he could provide Damon access to her, even it was for something as strange as an autograph. _Hariel wasn't famous, right?_

That was the closest Damon had gotten within the entire last month and he wasn't about to give it up.

A smirk slid across his face.

"Looks like you're in luck, Fletcher."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: And so the quest for Hariel Potter continues. In which Damon meets the scumbag of the Wizarding World and Mundungus Fletcher proves to be an even bigger asshole than previously thought, releasing the secrets of the Wizarding World to a complete outsider.


	4. the hollow grounds of sinners

Damon was a lot of things.

Many of which were terrible and twisted and dark and not at all human.

No, never human.

Becoming a vampire had erased that side of him, eroding it for years and years until all that remained was a bitter creature that wore the faces of men.

Or, at least he had thought so.

Because the twist of pain, dull and aching and less like a stake to the heart and more of a deeply buried splinter, begged to differ.

* * *

The Scottish countryside in the late summer was truly a sight to behold. Full of lush greenery and wildflowers smiling up towards the afternoon sky. There, the sun rested at high noon before lazily beginning its descent downward, painting the world in amber hues.

It was the type of view Damon once enjoyed, back when the blood he chocked down was his own and he swam through the wretched pits of hellfire that scorched Virgina with crimson stains. The Damon of yesteryear who wasted, dying, in grotesque gardens where bullets and carnage sprouted from the ground like carrion temples. Henry and him and all of the barely of age and terribly young soldiers, fighting for a nation that still lingered within the tailend of its infancy.

All of them, holding onto a feeble flicker of hope to escape a pointless death for a revolution whose end had been for told far before it had ever dared to begin. The breathless wonder encapsulated among the rolling viridian hills and cerulean skies and beneath the golden orb far above them. A fleeting moment of beauty amidst the confines of a war that deserved not a single claim to it.

He had cried at the sight of it. Hands caked in the crimson of his enemies and cousins and brothers whose blood dripped from the ledger resting atop his shoulder and coursing through the twisted mockery of survival he had been granted. And him, falling upon his knees like the wretched sinner he was in those green pastures where no shepherds dared to enter and sheep roamed aimlessly.

He still cried whenever he saw a view akin to it.

Christ, he was crying right now.

Silent and barely noticeable, but still there all the same.

He didn't want to be, but he couldn't help it.

Even after a century and a half, a part of him still clung to the visage, born from a memory that had kept him—not whole, but not irreparably broken—through the somber nights where death came to collect his piteous sacrifices.

Things like that weren't lost easily, no matter how hard one tried.

And Damon had tried a lot.

It didn't matter though.

Damon had always been good at lying, especially to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A brief stop of self-reflection on Damon's Odysseus journey for the great and powerful and so terribly elusive Hariel Potter. Damon may be an asshole, but more to himself than anyone else.


	5. london for a second time

Mundungus Fletcher was going to die.

And Damon?

He was going to be the one to kill him.

* * *

He was back in London.

Over three months had passed and Damon was finally back in London. Before him, stood a violently red door that looked so terribly out of place within the drab hallway that it inhabited. It was on the fifth floor of an apartment complex, only three blocks away from the bar that had started it all—this whole ridiculous manhunt of his.

It didn't seem like a place that anyone would want to live. It was too aged and too old; the type of home that housed weary spirits and people with too little time on their hands. Yet, within it all, stood that ridiculously red door, acting as a vivid pop of life within an otherwise barren hall.

Damon knew it was the place.

He didn't know why, but he knew it was.

And it hadn't been any easy place to find. Mundungus had made sure of that.

He had fed Damon a false lead, sending him on a wild goose chase across the British Isles. Damon had followed that trail for weeks before stopping to consider the actual likelihood of finding Hariel in some backwater farmhouse. That had been hours upon hours of his time wasted solely because that little troll of a man had somehow decided to develop a moral compass. Something that was almost beside the point, considering the fact that Damon didn't want to hurt Hariel. Sure, he wanted to find out how she knew he was a vampire, which could involve a creative approach when it came to attaining that information, but he wasn't going in there wanting to pop her head off Stefan style.

Fletcher's lack of faith in him was objectively offensive. It was suffice to say that if Damon ever saw him again, London's black market would have a job vacancy.

But, plotting murder was for another time. Right now, there were more important things.

Damon reached towards the red door, rapping his knuckles against it in clear, sharp bursts. The sound reverberated in the otherwise silent hallway and the door swung open almost instantaneously, as if it had expected his company and had already made plans for how to best accommodate him.

Within it, emerged the slender figure of a woman—barely more than a girl, really. Her arms were crossed as she gazed outwards at him, her eyes flicking from his beaten shoes to his well-worn jacket with amusement.

"Do you stalk all the girls that you meet at bars?" she questioned, arching an eyebrow. Her voice sounded exactly as he remembered it. "Or am I merely the exception?"

"It's not bars that I've got a problem with," he replied. "It's really more of the privacy part of it. My little, ah, what do you Brit's like to say? My bloody secret."

An unfamiliar sound escaped her and it took Damon amount to realize that it had been a snort.

"An immortal with a toddler's sense of humor? How charming."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Well, do you really believe that you're the only supernatural creature in all of London?"

"Enough of this," he snapped, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. "That's not what I'm trying to ask you."

"But, isn't Damon?" Hariel continued, her eyes dancing with mirth as if his mere existence provided some pitiable form of entertainment for her. She shook her head. "You vampires are all the same. You're all idiots before _Death_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: It's been awhile, hasn't it? Thank you for the continued support.


	6. teddy lupin, werewolf brat

Damon didn't need to reference a few hours ago to know that, with absolute certainty, this wasn't the way that he had planned to spend his afternoon. In fact, for all of his elongated life span—even those pesky years during the eighties that he preferred to forget had ever existed—he had never even considered spending his afternoon in this manner.

But, here he was, his body barely supported by a tiny, little, plastic, red chair, as a toddler tried to force feed him milk from an ornate teacup.

It didn't get any better after that.

* * *

Thirty minutes prior to what he would later describe as 'the incident', Damon had found himself in a starring contest with Hariel.

"You mean to tell me that you," he gestured towards all four feet and eleven inches of her form, "are the so called embodiment of death."

He stared at her incredulously, one of his hands thrown up in exasperation as the other worked to keep the door propped open in case she decided to slam it in his face. "Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?" he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a puff of air. "Trust me, lady, I know crazy. I lived through the fifties and they used _turtle cartoons_ to promote bomb safety. Heck, only a couple weeks ago, I ran into one of your cult fanatics. But, this? This is a whole new level of insane."

Hariel tilted her head to the side in question, looking an awful lot like a misplaced puppy. "I have cult fanatics?" she repeated with confusion, before murmuring thoughtfully, "Ginny _did_ go through that 'phase' in second year by collecting my hairs, so it shouldn't be all that inconceivable..."

She trailed off and Damon didn't even bother to cover his groan of frustration. What was with these people? First his wannabe mugger and now this? He had hoped that Hariel, of all the eccentric characters he had run into recently, would at least be relatively normal. She had seemed so at the bar, coy and secretive, but still with a reasonable grasp on her sanity. Apparently he was wrong.

"A girl collected your hair and what you're hung up on is the fact that a crazy," he stopped, searching for the word she had used. "A crazy _nargal_ lady seems to worship you?"

At this, understanding dawned on Hariel's face. "Was she blonde by any chance?"

Damon grimaced, remembering the mess of platinum strands that had seemed to be everywhere except where they were supposed to be. Honestly, one had ended up in his tea of all things—it was disgusting! "Trust me, she was definitely blonde."

"Then it was probably Luna!" Hariel exclaimed, her features morphing to accommodate a small smile. "I can understand the confusion, though. She's brilliant, but certainly one of a kind."

 _That's one way to put it_ , Damon thought, internally rolling his eyes, before rehashing his previous thoughts. "You seriously don't believe that you're Death, right?"

"It's not about believing," Hariel responded, her eyes suddenly hard. They were brighter than before, an almost toxic shade of green as they flashed with emotion. "It simply is. Whether you believe it or not doesn't change that."

Damon opened his mouth, preparing to abject but, before he had a chance, Hariel silenced him with a look. It wasn't a glare. In fact, it wasn't even all that malicious. But, it was heavy, the air filled with the same heady weight that had smothered him the first time they met, and Damon couldn't help but snap his jaw shut.

"Don't ask me for a demonstration," she continued, her hands bunched in that same oversized jumper she always seemed to wear. "I may be new to this whole Death thing, but I know better than to barter myself off like some one-trick pony."

"You're new to this whole death thing?" Damon questioned dubiously.

He was pretty sure that death had always been thing. No, he was _definitely_ sure that death had always existed. He had drained the life out of enough humans to know that for a fact.

"Don't get me wrong, you're spinning quite the story and while I admire the tenacity, from one fast talker to another, I just want to let you know that denying the previous existence of death doesn't necessarily sell your story."

Hariel blushed, tugging on one of her unruly burgundy curls. The strand, juxtaposed to the glaring red of her halfway opened door, appeared darker than it had previously in the warm lighting of the bar.

"I didn't mean that things haven't died before," she mumbled, blinking her big, green eyes. As unnerving as they were, Damon could admit that they were rather pretty with their soft almond shape and the dusting of dark red lashes that framed them. "I just meant that I've come into my inheritance as Death rather recently. I'm still trying to figure everything out. I think time travel may have played a part..."

Damon blinked in response, ceasing his soft tapping on the door. He wasn't even going to try to open the jar of crazy that was the second part of her response. "So you're saying that you're like a... baby death?"

"I guess." Hariel laughed. She drug a hand through her unruly locks, messing them up even more than before. "I never really thought of it like that."

Her brows furrowed in thought, small lips forming a pout and Damon couldn't help but release a chuckle at the tiny woman before him.

"Well then, Baby Death," he stated—rather charismatically if he did say so himself—,"how do you feel about inviting me in then? As nice as it is talking to you in the rundown hallway of your apartment building, I'd really like a drink." He flashed his fangs for a second, dragging his tongue over the right one's tip. "I'm feeling quite _peakish_."

Hariel just responded with a glare, opening her door the rest of the way. "You can come in, Damon, but there better not be any funny business."

"Yes, ma'am." Damon responded with a cheery salute.

* * *

"What's with the kid? You look way too young to be a mother." Damon said, eyeing the mini-human that had appeared in a blue blur the minute Hariel had stepped into the room.

The little urchin was glaring daggers at him from where he stood behind Hariel's leg, tucked rather neatly into her side. "My Hari," he stressed with childish vindication before flashing his violently turquoise hair to the pleasant burgundy of Hariel's locks.

 _Well damn_ , Damon thought, _that wasn't something you saw everyday._

"Teddy, please be nice," Hariel gently reprimanded. She crouched down, eye-level with the kid as she ruffled his hair affectionately. "Damon is a friend of mine and it would mean a lot to me if you got along." Accepting the small nod from the unhappy squirt, she turned her gaze towards Damon. "He's my godson." she explained fondly.

"Hari says that my parents were _heroes_." The little urchin piped up proudly and, ouch, if Damon actually had a heart he might have felt a little bad for the little demon. Unfortunately, he didn't and he was stuck contemplating Hariel's earlier words. How did she even know his name to begin with? He didn't remember giving it to her.

Before he could ask, however, the kid had piped up again. "You smell weird, mister," he wrinkled his small nose in distaste, "I don't like it. It's icky."

"Teddy!" Hariel admonished. "Is that a nice thing to say?"

The kid shuffled his feet uncomfortably, before puffing up his cheeks. "But it's true!"

Hariel sighed. "Damon's different than us. That's why he smells a little funny to you." She tweaked his nose with a laugh. "You probably smell funny to him too."

Damon frowned. Now that Hariel had mentioned it, the little menace did smell a bit strange. Not overwhelmingly so, but certainly enough to suggest that he wasn't completely human. It was almost like... _ah, so that's what it was_ , Damon realized, _that's why she didn't have any problems with me coming in. She probably assumed that she could just have the kid bite me if things went south_.

Almost as if reading his mind, Hariel shot him a glare. "Don't even think about it."

Shaking his head, Damon raised his hands in surrender. "Don't worry, I won't touch a hair on Werewolf Brat's head."

"My name's Teddy," the little boy corrected, his little hands scrunched into tiny fists. "T-E-D-D-Y, okay? It's not that hard."

Before the argument could escalate (as much as one could escalate when one of the participants was barely older than a toddler), Hariel cut in. "Teddy, you ought to be nicer to Damon. After all, he agreed to watch you while I did some errands."

Damon froze. She wouldn't, would she? Judging by the small smirk on her face and the equally as small child barreling towards him, she would.

"I still don't like you, mister, but maybe I'll like you more if you play tea party with me," the child babbled excitedly and it took all of Damon's self control not to snap his wrist as his hand latched onto his own.

"You let your godson play _tea party_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, I do," she replied defiantly. "It's what makes him happy." With a swift jerk of her hand, she brushed her unruly locks out of her face, trying in vain to make them neater before smoothly slipping on her jacket. "I expect no funny business," she asserted.

"How do you know that I won't just leave?" Damon shot back. It was his turn to be defiant.

"Because you still have questions that you need to be answered and I won't be saying anything if I return with my godson unsupervised," she responded, wrapping a shimmering scarf around her neck. "I'm assuming you know better than to try to drink from him?" she inquired, her gaze sharp. Damon nodded. "Good. If you get thirsty, there's a bloodbag in the fridge. I picked it up this morning."

Then, with a loud crack, she was gone, leaving Damon staring blankly at the place she had occupied previously, her small godson hanging off his arm like the little limpet that he was.

_How did she know that he was coming?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Oh, Hariel, you try so hard to be suave, don't you? But, everyone knows that you're still just a baby death. And, yes, Teddy knows about being part-werewolf, because I just can't see her lying to him after she was lied to all of her life.


	7. my first murder mystery

"It's not like I'm condemning you to babysitting for an eternity," Hariel reasoned, pulling her thick curls into an uneven spiral on the crown of her head.

"That's what you said the last time," Damon responded in kind, arms crossed and scowl marring his otherwise handsome features. The emotion in his eyes, for once, as icy as their color.

"I know what I said." Hariel waved her hand dismissively, moving to pick up jacket with her other. "But, this will the last time. I need to sort out my affairs before I can address whatever is going on with you."

She gestured dully to Damon's figure before spinning on her heel and the vampire just raised an eyebrow. "I'll hold you to that, Baby Death. I'll hold you to that."

* * *

The sharp crack of a gunshot rung through Hariel's small apartment. Glancing up, Damon leisurely stretched his arms above him, wincing as his muscles groaned in protest. It took a lot for a vampire to relax—their reflexes honed to react at the drop of a pin—so he wasn't complaining.

That didn't make Hariel's couch any more comfortable though.

Not to mention the fact that the woman had begun saddling him with longer and longer babysitting shifts. Brat-sitting may have been slowly growing on him (not that he would ever mention that little fact to the red-haired harpy and her turquoise menace), but not enough to warrant the accelerated rates of bonding time he was being subjected to.

Of course, it was that very same woman's fault that he was in this predicament to begin with. She hoarded her precious information over his head, giving out bite-sized pieces of it like treats. She couldn't be compelled either. Damon had found that out the hard way.

Summarily put, he was bitter. Frustrated enough that his internal monologue had taken precedent over properly verifying Hariel's arrival. Maybe he had grown complacent the last few weeks, adjusting to the witch's seemingly endless supply of blood bags as he attempted to appease her. Personally, her preferred drinking from the source, but he had quickly realized that Hariel had eyes _everywhere_ , that between her celebrity status (and, boy, had that been difficult to wrap his head around: a war having just drawn to a close that more than half the world didn't even know about) and her apparent status as Death, nothing slipped past her.

So, he had been a good, little vampire, cleaned his fangs, and abstained from performing any dastardly deeds on misplaced bar hoppers. He had babysat her brat when she requested and didn't disrupt her wards. He had been, quite frankly, a reasonably upstanding citizen for the first time in over a century and Hariel repaid him by ditching for five days? Damon was definitely annoyed and he wasn't afraid to let his pseudo-employer know.

"Oh, well look who's finally back," he bit out, his hand fisted in the shirt of Teddy Lupin, demon child extraordinaire, as the little bugger attempted to bolt towards Hariel's regular teleportation-thingy _(what had she called it? Appa-whatever?)_ spot. "Back from your Vegas vacation so soon? I was afraid Theodore and I were going to have to begin settling for rations."

His tone was snarky, inviting a response and when one didn't come, he froze, recognizing for the first time that evening that the apartment was far too quiet. His heart froze in his chest for a millisecond.

Something was very _very_ wrong.

* * *

It was the scent that hit him first. Heady, metallic, and intertwined with the dampness of sweat, Damon knew it couldn't be anything but blood. He clenched his jaw, elongated canines digging into his lips as he felt the rush of angry veins, sharp blue lines stark against the paleness of his skin, creeping down his face. His breath was shallow, excitement thrumming just beneath his skin like a well-tuned guitar and he knew it would be so easy, so _very_ easy to sink his fangs into the slender column of the woman's neck.

Before they were people, vampires were predators, the transition jumping a rung in the ladder of evolution that simply couldn't be reversed. For better or for worse, they were the _other_ , opposite of what had once been, creatures of the night bringing humans like cattle to the slaughter. They were hardwired to be killers, big cats with little hope of being domesticated, and vampires who failed to acknowledge their fundamental instincts _snapped_. Rippers, the whole lot of them.

But Damon wasn't a ripper, not like Stefan.

He knew what he was: the good, the bad, the ugly, when eternity without Katherine barely seemed worth living. He wasn't foolish enough to view himself as anything other than the murder machine on steroids that vampire society amounted to.

He continued to inhale in short bursts, head tucked into the collar of his shirt like it was a makeshift gas mask. He wasn't stupid. He knew that taking a deep breath would be self-control suicide. The air felt heavy, the hazy stench of fear clinging to the room, rising off the downed figure before him and the werewolf pup nipping at his heels.

"Vacate the premises, Cujo," he barked out, swinging his head around to Teddy and, fuck, the brat's eyes were werewolf gold. That complicated things. "You don't need to see this."

A rumbling growl echoed in response, Teddy's lips curled back and his eyes blown wide with incomprehension as if he wasn't aware that he could even emit such a sound. He probably wasn't, what with Hariel's mother hen tendencies preventing the pint-sized menace from being within even a mile of danger. That was some grade A parenting—hell, Damon wished his old man had been a bit more like that and bit less enthusiastic about dropkicking him into a national war—but, it didn't help right now, not when Hariel was bleeding out right before them.

Damon knew what it looked like: him, a larger predator, crouched over the pup's adoptive mother as she held onto a fraying thread of life. He understood the brat's aggression. Warning bells wouldn't just be going off in his head if that was him, they would he blaring.

It didn't matter, though. All the sympathy in the world wouldn't fix this, not when Damon couldn't do jack squat with a werewolf, half or not, ready to bite him at a moment's notice.

"I said get, brat." He flashed dark eyes at the trembling figure below him.

"No." There was a look of defiance wrapped around the pup. Golden eyes sharp despite shaking limbs, hair uncontrollably skipping through the rainbow like a defective kaleidoscope, and tear tracks staining cheeks lined with baby fat. "I'm not leaving Hari. Not when she needs me. Not now. Not ever."

"That's a great pep talk, kid. Really moving. Almost brought tears to my eyes and everything," Damon responded, voice sharp with irritation. "But unless you're prepared for season two of the orphan lifestyle, you're going to have to let the _adult_ handle this."

He emphasized the word adult, angrily jabbing a thumb towards his own torso as he spoke. His frustration was palpable, vampiric features emerging with more prominence than before. Previously, he had taken care to box up the monster, lest he terrify Teddy. Now, with his patience fraying at an alarming rate, he found that he cared significantly less. _You're out of your league, twerp,_ Damon thought, lips curling upwards to expose his fangs. _Now go ahead and runaway with your tail between your legs like a good, little brattling._

Any sane individual would have fled. No one of sound mind would wait around to get snapped in two like a discarded twig. Even Damon (although he would never admit it, no matter how much Hariel would eventually tease him) had fled from his own fair share of older vamps. Except, that didn't happen.

Difying all logic, the pup took one look at his morphing features and decided a full frontal attack was his best option. Without a second thought, he launched himself towards Damon, his body flailing wildly in a ball of limbs that hadn't quite figured out what to do. It was utterly pathetic, idiotic, and the exact reason why Damon refused to fraternize with werewolves.

Vampires were easy to manage. When in doubt, one could assume that they would always default to acting in their own best interest. Werewolves didn't work like that. They were clingy creatures, strangely loyal, and could be set off at a drop of a pin. It was, quite frankly, a bucket of crazy that he had no interest in dealing with.

The kid had balls of steel. Damon could give him that. Not that it was going to prevent him from punting the little menace out of the room, because that's what it was going to come down to in the end: the werewolf brat charging straight at him to only be knocked out with a simple flick of his wrist. It was really too easy.

"I hope you like naps, kid."

* * *

One werewolf brat down and Hariel passed out before him, Damon could feel the panic truly begin to sink in. He knew it was a stupid decision to knockout Teddy, questionable at best, but he had lost his cool and now he was just hoping he hadn't given the little menace brain damage. _Fuck_ , Hariel was going to kill him if she ended up surviving this.

Which brought him to his more pressing concern: Hariel's soon-to-be corpse, the color draining out of her pallid skin at an alarming rate. Her body was laid at an awkward angle, head lolling to the side with eyes closed in pain. He couldn't have her die on him, not when there was still so much she had yet to divulge to him. Not when she provided the most entertainment he had experienced in decades. A dead Hariel meant back to "Stefan Stalking" as his main source of entertainment and Damon couldn't handle that. Stefan was, for all intents and purposes, one of the most boring individuals known to vampiric kind.

Even worse than that, however, was possibility of being saddled with guardianship of Hariel's half-werewolf ward. Damon didn't know much about the redhead's social circle, the witch keeping most of her personal affairs under lock and key when she was around him, but there had better be someone else in her life that could take care of that little menace. _That_ was a fate worse than death.

Desperately, he bit into his wrist, faintly registering the pain as he shoved it before Hariel's open mouth. "Drink, please, just drink."

He didn't want to turn her, couldn't imagine the type of anger that she would feel if he accidentally did so against her will, but he had no other options. Damon wasn't a healer. In fact, he had spent the majority of his life excelling in the exact opposite, cultivating a unique skillset of killing individuals in a variety of different ways. The notion of him existing as anything other was laughable.

But, vampire blood could _heal_. For some unknown reason, beings as cursed and twisted as the monsters held within children's fairytales, could bring someone back from the brink of death with nothing more than a crimson drop. Life could be given from those who were intended to take it. Damon knew that, had experienced it himself all those years ago with Katherine. If transitioning was the price to pay for Teddy not losing his second mother, than so be it.

"Drink, Baby Death. Just a little drop, that's all you need." Damon urged, his wrist pushed further into the small woman's face, her mouth slack-jawed and unresponsive. His voice was laced with annoyance, frustrated that Hariel would even consider putting him in this situation. Beneath that, his chest ached, soft and barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.

He didn't want her to die and while a large part of it was certainly the result of his twisted self-interest, his hapless search for the vampiric El Dorado that was Katherine Pierce (for who else would be capable of freeing his lost love, but Death wrapped in a mortal cloak?), Damon couldn't ignore the sliver of it all that clung on for Hariel, herself, and nothing more.

His hands, coated in crusting ribbons of blood, and his face buried against his chest, nose scrunched, Damon knew this was _different_. It wasn't that he liked Hariel. But, he didn't dislike her either. She was, well, _tolerable,_ a happy medium that he hadn't settled upon for decades.

Not a friend, but not an enemy: something lying within that grey area and _fuck_ , if Damon was going to give that up so quickly after finding it.

But, that didn't matter. The redhead wasn't breathing, his blood dripping uselessly down her throat. _It's supposed to heal you. That's what vampire blood does_ , Damon thought, struck by an unfamiliar cord of dispair. _Why isn't it working? What am I doing wrong?_

He clenched his teeth, free hand shooting out to punch the floorboard, wooden paneling breaking beneath it with a distinctive crunch.

"Wake up," he shouted, not bothering to hide his anger, spittle sliding down his face as ripped it free of the confines of his thin shirt. The scent of blood, all the more stronger, washed over him and Damon found that he didn't care, not when his hopes of reaching Katherine were once again destroyed, crumbling away as they always did. "Dear God, just please wake up."

Only silence answered him.

* * *

One minute passed.

Then another.

And then Hariel was sitting up with a gasp, choking on his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Buffed up some earlier chapters to provide more insight for the characters reasoning. More importantly, though, Teddy Lupin deserves a hug.


End file.
